


Tomorrow's World

by Mrs_Colette



Category: Captain America (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 00:37:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14988953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Colette/pseuds/Mrs_Colette
Summary: After finishing her eighth year, Dumbledore asks one final thing of Hermione. To help an old friend acclimate to a new world.Written for the Off The Beaten Path challenge for Hermione's Haven.





	Tomorrow's World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [punkyredhead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkyredhead/gifts).



June 18, 1999

Hermione looked around the circular office sadly. Although she knew rationally that this was the Headmistress’ office at the recently rebuilt Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, without the clutter of odd artifacts and slight scent of muggle sweets, her heart had trouble agreeing. Settling in one of the crimson chairs by the fireplace, she settled in to wait for Headmistress McGonagall. She wasn't sure what the elderly witch wished to see her about, but her note had indicated she was eager to visit with her before Hermione boarded the tiny boats to cross back over the Lake, leaving Hogwarts behind. She had grown close to her former professor during this eighth year, working side by side with her as they labored to rebuild Hogwarts, and spending more than a few late nights talking over a cup of tea in this very room. She reached for a cup of tea now, adding a single cube of sugar before stirring the strong black tea she knew the Headmistress had sent over from her native Scotland. Blowing gently across the steaming cup, she brought it to her lips, allowing her thoughts to wander back to the beginning of this unconventional eighth year as she waited.

Startling from her reverie as she heard what sounded like someone clearing their throat, she set down her now empty teacup. Looking around the minimalist office, she didn't see anyone, but she knew appearances could be deceiving. Flicking her wrist in a practiced move to release her wand, Hermione spoke. 

“Honeom Rivelio.”

When the Spell verified that she was, indeed, alone in the office, Hermione shook her head at her still high-strung nerves. Just then a familiar voice spoke.

“Constant vigilance I see, Miss Granger. Alastor would be so proud,” Dumbledore twinkled down at her from his portrait to the right of the fireplace.

“Hello Professor!” Hermione smiled up at him. “I must admit sir, I’m surprised to see you here today, I thought you would’ve been down in the entry hall with the rest of the portraits for the send off!”

“I will be joining them momentarily, but I have to admit a bit of a ruse,” Dumbledore said, his face somber. “I’m afraid that I am the one who asked you here, Ms. Granger. Will you allow an old man to tell you a tale?”

Sensing a story that was just begging to be told, Hermione turned the chair she had been sitting in and sat back down. Tucking her legs under her, she settled in for what would be the last of Professor Dumbledore's stories that she would hear for a long time.

July 20, 2012

Hermione's wand trilled, and the witch groaned as she muttered the counterspell sleepily. Sitting up in her bed, she rubbed her eyes as her mind began cataloging her agenda for the day. She had a meeting with the delegation on native wizarding culture at 8, lunch with a potential contact in the Wizarding Resources Department, and an afternoon to begin to research the effect of proposed controlled hunting on the protected Hidebehind. Thank Merlin it was Friday! Snorting softly as the thought of a t-shirt emblazoned with TMIF floated across her mind, she flopped back onto her pillow as the sheer volume of work she still had to complete before her week was over washed over her. She truly did enjoy working for the American branch of Malfoy Industries, her dual roles as Researcher and Native Conservationist were incredibly fulfilling, but they left her little time for anything else. Groaning again, she climbed out of bed and walked to the bathroom, turning on the shower.

She organized her thoughts for her meeting with the delegation as she went through her morning routine, getting dressed before heading into the setting the kettle to boil just as she heard the tapping of the news owl on her kitchen window. Opening it just enough to let him fly in, she fished some treats out of the tin before closing the window behind him as she glanced over the headlines of The Prophet and the Quibbler, turning away to pour a cup of tea when the water boiled. Placing the British papers to the side, she took a drink of tea as she pulled the local Thunderbird closer to her. Spitting the tea out of her mouth, she choked as she read the headline.

“Captain America Awake!” The headline shouted out, the still photos of Steve standing awestruck in the middle of the city seeming out of place in the magical paper. Hermione waved her wand absentmindedly to dry her blouse as she devouring the article. It seemed that the man had been found frozen in his ship by agents of an organization called SHIELD, and had awoken the day before here in New York City. Hermione let the paper fall to the table, her mind whirling. She reached up to grasp the enchanted amethyst she wore daily, wondering what this could mean. How would she react, if she ever found herself in that situation? She couldn't imagine what he must be going through, waking up 70 years in the future, everyone he knew dead. Glancing at the time, she swore softly, rising from the table and heading off to meet the delegation.

July 24, 2012

Steve swung hard, trying to release some of the emotions he had swirling around in his brain. Cringing as yet another bag split, he grabbed his towel and wiped the sweat from his face. He walked to the folding chair that made up one of the only other pieces of furniture in the decrepit room. Ever since waking up in that joke of a recovery room, the cheap imitation of Peggy tending to him, he had felt adrift. Not only for the obvious reasons, with everyone he ever knew dead and a society he couldn’t recognize thriving, but for the emotions that he felt constantly threatening to burst out of his very skin. Steve had always felt things ‘big’ as Bucky used to say, but he had never felt like this before. Like he had no control over himself, like he was just along for the ride. He had almost killed a SHIELD handler when the man had tried to prevent him from leaving the training room. His anger had peaked, and the time he had spent in the ice had apparently ruined the work that he had put in to learn how to temper his swing. He had been so guilty and mortified, he burst into tears. The tears had embarrassed him, which led back to anger, which almost led to another physical altercation. Steve left the medical ward after that. 

He took off, walking across the city aimlessly, until he found himself in front of the old Atlas Gym. Steve had trailed Bucky here more times than he cared to remember, watching him lift weights and box with guys that looked like Steve could only dream of, tall, broad shouldered, the epitome of health. He brushed aside the twinge of guilt he felt roll through him as he broke the padlocked chain the held the doors closed, and made his way cautiously inside. It was clear it had been shut down for quite some time, but it still seemed just as he remembered, for the most part. A little dustier, and the ropes surrounding the ring were rotting away, but he began to feel nostalgic as every corner he peered into seemed to uncover a memory from what was, quite literally, a lifetime ago. Making a rash decision for the first time in quite a long time, he scavenged the abandoned gym, finding about 30 intact bags, a folding chair, table, and cot. He set up shop a few days ago, hoping for a break from the overwhelming lights, sounds, and jargon he had left behind. Since then, he had been spending his days trying to relearn the delicate art of holding back his overpowering strength to avoid killing those he crossed, and spending his nights trying, and usually failing to get a handle on these mood swings. He had made quite a bit of progress with his swing, but absolutely none with his emotions. Glaring down at the bag on the floor, he yelled, kicking the destroyed speedbag into the crumbling wall, the anger rising in him so quickly it had no other outlet. Coughing as the plaster settled around him, he sank to the floor, his head in his hands. 

“What is wrong with me?” he groaned, tucking his legs under him. Wincing slightly as he felt a slight pinch, he dug into his pocket, pulling out a marble sized geode. Smiling slightly, he thought of the weird little man who had given him the stone. He had been trapped in a Hydra stronghold built into the side of a mountain, and he had given him the stone before continuing on a journey to confront an old friend. Smiling slightly as he thought of the earnest way the man had forced him to accept the stone, and with it a life debt that he insisted he owed, Steve clenched his fist around the rock as the man’s bearded face flashed across his mind’s eye. Suddenly, his mood swung again, irrational grief rising now as he thought of that man being yet another of those he left behind, another that he would never see again. His thoughts swung to Bucky, to Dugan, to Morita, to Falsworth. What was the point of it all? Why had he survived that crash? His anger rose again, and he threw the small rock away from him, not noticing the faint glow emitting from it as it embedded itself into the decades old plaster.

Hermione sank onto her small couch, groaning. She rubbed the back of her neck as she attempted to work out the tension that the work week was already heaping on her. Theo was being a right arse, and Hermione was fed up. Rationally, she understood that he was just lashing out at her because he was under just as much pressure as she was, perhaps even more. She made her way into the kitchen, preparing a cup of tea. Glancing at the clock on the top of the stove, she decided to take a chance and call Harry. It would be just before midnight, but she might get lucky and catch him. Kneeling before the fire, she tossed her Floo powder in.

‘Harry?” she whisper-called, peering around the living room.

“‘Mione?” Harry replied, walking out of his study, rubbing his eyes. “Is everything ok?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Harry. What are you working on so late? What does Lesada have you working on?”

“Don’t worry about me ‘Mione. It’s actually pretty boring. I’m only working on it now because Lily has been sick. Just some stomach bug, don’t worry,” he said as Hermione began to look concerned. “I’ve got her in there on the couch. I wanted Ginny to be able to get some decent sleep,” Harry smiled down at her as he settled in front of the fire. “What’s got you buzzing me up in the middle of the week?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Hermione sighed. “Theo is an arse, I get too invested in my job, and the tea here sucks,” she sighed again dramatically, taking a sip from her prepared tea.

Laughing, Harry removed his glasses, using the hem of his shirt to wipe away the smudges. “I will get Luna to send you some of her summer blend tomorrow. It’s wicked. Did you hear about Charlie?”

Nodding, Hermione started to laugh, the tinkling sound cutting off suddenly. Her hand went to her chest, her eyes wide as she looked up at Harry. 

“What is it, Hermione?” Harry asked, rising slightly, his hand going to his wand, his eyes trying to peer beyond her and into her flat.

Hermione tugged on the simple goblin gold chain that looped around her neck, pulling the rough cut amethyst out from underneath her shirt. Harry gaped at her, sitting hard back on the floor as the gemstone began to glow slightly.  
“It’s time, Harry,” Hermione breathed, her heart racing. “I’ll contact you as soon as I can, I promise.”

“Be safe, ‘Mione,” Harry called out as she began to shimmer before his eyes. “I love you!”

“Love you t--” Hermione replied, disappearing from view as the Floo connection closed abruptly.

Steve had strung up another speedbag and was finally starting to work up a sweat as he let punches fly without abandon when he suddenly became aware of another person in the room with him. Whirling, he took a defensive stance as he scanned the room. He was shocked to see a young woman standing calmly in the old boxing ring, although he knew that he was the only one in the room seconds before. He looked at her, trying to determine what about her seemed familiar to him. She had brown curly hair, the riotous curls spilling down over her slim shoulders. Her brown eyes were large, the expression in them guarded even as she smiled at him. She was petite, her head probably wouldn’t even reach his chin. For her diminutive size, she had an aura of strength about her, the sense of one who had seen death and emerged victorious. She raised her hand, a purple gemstone that oddly resembled a golf ball dangling from a golden chain. 

“Do you recognize this?” she asked, her voice as soft as her skin appeared to be. “It was given to me by a mutual friend, Albus Dumbledore.”

“I don’t know anyone named Albus,” Steve said, his voice tight. He had no idea who this woman was, how she had appeared in front of him so suddenly, and he wasn’t letting his guard down just because she offered him up a pretty trinket.

Hermione’s brow furrowed, a look of confusion on her face. 

“He gave this to me, right before I left school, when he told me about you. Don’t you remember him? He was incredibly thankful for you. You saved him from a Hydra base that was carved into the side of a mountain. You gave him some advice that gave him the strength to confront a former friend,” Hermione had began to walk toward him as she spoke, and she came to a stop before him, her face still carefully neutral.

“Brian?” Steve questioned, his mind easing somewhat.

Hermione snorted, shaking her head. “That is hilarious. Brian…” she trailed off.

He stood up straight, abandoning his defensive position, knowing that if this woman was connected to that man from long ago, she meant him no harm. He was correct in his earlier assessment, her head came up to just barely touch his chin. He could smell the rose and basil of her shampoo, and he felt the same strange energy pulsing off of her that he had sensed from Brian. Or Albus. Whatever. 

“How do you know him? How did you know where to find me?” he asked, his mind racing. 

Just as Hermione opened her mouth to introduce herself properly, Steve tensed again, hearing familiar footsteps echoing on the cement hallway.

Hermione noticed the stiffening in his posture, the way that his eyes tightened. 

“Steve?” she asked, laying a hesitant hand on his arm. “What is it?”

Looking down at her, his eyes were angry. “I have reached the end of SHIELD’s patience. Fury is coming.”

“Shite.” she muttered, wringing her hands as she thought of what to do. “Do you trust me?” she asked, looking slightly panicked.

“Not in the slightest, ma’am,” Steve admitted honestly. “But I already like you an awful lot more than the man who is about to walk in this room.”

Hermione looked up at him for a moment, indecision clear in her gaze. Finally she straightened her shoulders, and let out a long breath. “Grab my arm.”

“What?” Steve said, surprised. 

Hermione took a step closer to him, and Steve was overwhelmed again by the scent of herb and roses. She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her head against his chest.

“This will be a little disconcerting,” she warned, her voice slightly muffled. “Whatever else you do, hold on tight!”

Steve barely had the time to nod before he felt a hook behind his navel, tugging him backwards almost violently. He saw Fury enter the room just before the force of the movement forced his eyes closed. He felt at though he was being sucked through a small straw, and he was quite certain he was going to be sick. As suddenly as it began it was over, and Steve found his legs buckling underneath him. He was unable to disentangle Hermione from his arms before he fell, finding himself flat on his back with the small witch laying across his chest. Some area of his brain registered how nice she felt, laying on top of him, but just as quickly the nausea took over, and he pushed her off of him as he rolled to the right, coming up on his knees just in time to lose the meger lunch he had eaten.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked sheepishly up at Hermione, who by that point had regained her feet. 

“Happened to me my first time too,” she admitted, her eyes twinkling. “Here.” She offered him a glass of water, Steve accepting it gratefully and swallowing the contents quickly.

“Where are we?” he asked, looking around.

“Montreal,” she replied, looking a little sheepish herself.

“Montreal? Canada?” Steve asked, incredulous. “You expect me to believe that you just poofed us 7 hours away, like magic?”

At his words, the small woman burst out laughing, seemingly unable to hold in her giggles. Steve glared at her, feeling his anger rising again, waiting for her laughter to subside. 

“I’m sorry,” she said breathlessly, still fighting giggles. “You’ll understand in just a moment. First things first, my name is Hermione Granger.”

She stuck out her hand, and Steve shook it, moving almost on autopilot. 

“Steve Rogers, ma’am.”

“Secondly, I apologize for Appartating you across the border, but as Canada is a member of the Commonwealth, I have much more sway with their Ministry if word of this ever got back to them.” She took a deep breath and turned her large eyes back up to meet his confused gaze. “I am a witch, Steve.”

“I haven’t known you long, but I don’t think I would agree, Ms. Granger,” Steve said, a slightly shocked look on his face. 

“No, Steve, witch. With a w, not a b,” Hermione replied, giggles threatening again.

Steve blushed slightly, but then something in his brain clicked. 

“Was Brian a witch too?” he asked.

“Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was a wizard, and one of the most impressive ones I ever had the pleasure of knowing. He was the Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for many years before his death,” Hermione said, a faint smile on her lips.

Steve’s face fell. Another death. Another person he had outlived. His emotions swung wildly again, veering between an irrational grief for a man he had barely known and anger at his unnatural life path. 

Sensing the emotions roiling beneath his calm demeanor, Hermione spoke. 

“Steve?” she asked softly, taking a few steps toward him cautiously. “Are you alright?”

Suddenly Steve laughed, the sound startling her.

“Am I ok? I just woke up from a 70 year old powernap, everyone I have ever known is dead, I was just transported across the country by a witch, because magic is of course real, and you’re asking if I’m ok? Don’t worry doll, I’m just fine,” he said, his voice strangled.

“Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you all about it, ok?” she asked, turning slightly to gesture to the small cabin behind them.

Steve nodded, feeling suddenly drained. He allowed her to take his hand, and he followed her into the small building.

Hermione bustled around the tiny kitchen of Draco’s cabin, feeling at home in the small space. She placed a kettle of water on to boil and reached in a corner cupboard for a package of cookies. When the water boiled a short time later, they were both startled, the whistle bringing them both out of separate reveries. Hermione made a pot quickly, and brought the teapot, 2 cups, and the cookies over to where Steve was sitting hunched over the small table. She poured him a cup and slid it over to him, allowing him to doctor it to his preferences. She added a single sugar cube and a generous pour of milk to her own before taking a deep sip.

“I know it’s terribly cliche of me, but I really do feel as though there is nothing in this world that a good spot of tea can’t fix,” she said, smiling as she set down her cup. “Would you like me to start at the beginning?”

Steve nodded, not trusting his voice as his emotions were still unsettled. 

“Thirteen years ago, on my last day of school, I received a note in my room that the Headmistress wished to see me before I went. When I arrived in her office, no one was there, so I poured myself a cup and settled in to wait. I was lost in thought when I became aware of someone else in the room. I hadn’t realized that Albus was in his portrait that day--”

“What do you mean, in his portrait?” Steve interrupted.

“Sorry, you are taking Apparating so well I forget that you have no idea about anything I’m talking about,” Hermione smiled at him. “Witches and wizards have the ability to place some of their souls into paintings, giving them sentience and allowing them to interact with the living when the mood strikes. All their memories are transferred, as well as personality in some rather unfortunate cases.”

“That’s the strangest thing I have ever heard,” Steve said, shaking his head.

“I’ll remind you of that in a week,” Hermione said, laughing. “Anyway, Dumbledore had set the entire thing up with the help of the house elves--”

“Elves?!” Steve broke in, a confused look on his face.

“This is going to be harder than I thought,” Hermione mused aloud, a pensive look on her face. “Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, eh?” She stood from the table and walked down to a small closet in the hallway. Removing something that looked like a metal bowl embedded with rough cut gemstones, she came back to him, setting the bowl on the table in between them and retaking her seat. She flicked her wrist and a long thin stick slipped out of her sleeve, Steve unable to take his eyes off of it.

“Brian had one of those!” he said excitedly. “He used it on the stone he gave me!”  
Smiling over at him, Hermione passed her wand to him. 

“This is my wand. It channels my magical energy into the spells that I cast and allows me to achieve the desired result,” Hermione said, stifling a giggle as she watched him swing it around like a muggle magician.

Reaching her hand back across the table, she left her hand palm up, waiting patiently for Steve to return her wand to her. Once she had it back, she gestured to the dish on the table. 

“This is a Pensieve. It allows a memory to be extracted and viewed again, allowing you to see all the details that your subconscious mind picks up, even things that you don’t notice at the time. It also allows you to share that memory with others, which we use occasionally in criminal trials. I am going to use this to allow to you view the memory of Dumbledore explaining everything to me. I think that will save us some time. Now, although you will be able to see and hear both myself and Dumbledore, you will not be able to speak to anyone while you are in the memory. Think of it as a fully submersive movie, if that helps. After I place the memory in the basin, I will show you how to enter it. Do you understand?”

“In theory, yes,” Steve said, doubt evident in his tone.

Hermione took a deep breath and pressed her wand to her temple. Murmuring softly, she pulled back her wand, and Steve gasped at the silvery thread trailing from her head to the tip of her wand. Tugging slightly, she withdrew the memory, and eased it into the basin. Looking up at him, she shook her head as though she was clearing cobwebs.

“My apologies,” she said. “It tickles a bit.”

Steve stared at her, trying not to let his discomfort show. 

“On the count of three,” she smiled encouragingly as she pantomimed dipping her head in the swirling liquid. “One, two, three.” 

Steve leaned forward and mist covered his vision. When it cleared, he found himself in an odd two story circular stone room, a study desk situated across from a roaring fireplace, the walls crowded with portraits and lined with books. Hermione stood before him, a nostalgic look on her face. 

“Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Steve,” she breathed. “This is the boarding school where I spent 7 of the best years of my life. This memory takes place at the end of my eighth year of education. Traditionally students only attend for seven, but my seventh year was interrupted when my best friends and I had to go on the run and culminated here, where I fought for my life against a madman.”

Steve looked at her in alarm, remembering the way she had held herself in the gym, the calm that portrayed someone who had faced death and emerged victorious. He felt a sadness well up in him, that this woman had been forced to wage war before she had even finished school. He had been spoiling for a fight, but barred at every turn. It was clear from the faraway look in her eyes as she thought back over this time in her life that she was a reluctant warrior. She was strong, that much was clear, but she hadn’t been given the choice to pursue the path of her life, in the way that Steve had once thought that he was. He suddenly found he very much wanted to know more about the witch standing before him.

“Will you tell me about that?” he asked softly.

“When you have finished here, yes. I think that I know how I will be able to fulfill Albus’ wishes,” Hermione promised.

When she gestured behind Steve, he turned, and smiled as he saw a younger Hermione sitting in a crimson armchair in front of the fire, a cup of tea at her lips. She didn’t look much different from her current appearance, despite that she said thirteen years had passed since this moment. Her hair was longer now, not quite as bushy, and her body matured beyond that of a schoolgirl. Steve blushed as he thought of her laying on top of him in the grass outside of that cabin in Montreal, frantically reciting Dodger’s stats as his arousal hit him just as hard as any other of his emotional swings had been these past few days. He grew frustrated when his arousal wouldn’t abate, and he swung his fist in a gesture of impotent rage. 

“Steve?” Hermione asked, concerned. “Are you ok? I thought this would be helpful, but if it’s too much for you we can leave.”

“No,” Steve replied curtly.

Looking at him warily, she nodded slowly.

“I am going to leave the memory now,” Hermione said. “I promised a friend I would get in contact. I'll be right there when you return.”

She smiled at him and then vanished. 

Twenty minutes later, Steve found himself back at the small kitchen table. Hermione stood and crossed back to the stove, her eyes wet as she busied herself again with setting a kettle to boil. 

“My apologies,” she said, wiping a hand across her eyes. “My memories of school are mostly good, but being back in the Headmaster’s office--”

Hermione was cut off as Steve crossed the room and wrapped her up in a hug. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice broken. “ I’m sorry that you had to fight a war when you were only a child. I’m sorry that you got saddled with me. For what it’s worth I am grateful for you. You know, you are the only one who has spoken to me without a hidden agenda since I woke up?” Steve pulled back slightly and looked down at her. “Everyone else has been anxious for Captain America to emerge, shield in hand, ready to fight the enemies of America.I have always believed that my job was to make tomorrow’s world better, but I don’t recognize myself here.” 

“That is what I can do for you, Steve,” Hermione said, lifting a small hand to place on his cheek. “I can help you adjust to this new world, to the effects of the near constant warfare you experienced for all those years. You spent so long in war, your mind doesn’t know how to react to prolonged peace. Add in the loss of everyone you remember, well, it’s no wonder your experiencing some symptoms. Will you accept my help in healing your mind, making you comfortable in this new world?”

Steve felt a strange pulsing coming from the pendant she wore, still crushed between them as he held her. He felt a welcome sense of peace wash over him as he looked down into her eyes, and he smiled genuinely for the first time since he woke up.

“Yes, I accept your help.”


End file.
